Too Lazy to be a Villainess - Chapter 315

Chapter 315: Dawn of the Blood Crown
[Lavinia’s POV — Black Wall Fortress—At Dawn]

CRUNCH—!!

SLASH—!!

CRUSH—!!

Those were the only sounds that breathed inside the Black Wall as dawn broke—metal against bone, bone against ground, and the wet finality of bodies hitting stone.

The sun had barely risen, thin gold stretching across the battlements… turning the stains on my boots into rusted shadows. I hadn’t even changed into proper armor; there had been no time.

Sir Haldor and Osric stood on either side of me, blades drawn, backs straight, forming a shield around me. I didn’t need it—but they refused to move away after the ambush.

My sleeves were torn, my dress drenched in blood that wasn’t mine. My palms were scratched raw from gripping my sword too long. My arms stung from shallow cuts I had ignored through the night.

Then—

SLASH—!!

THUD—!!

The last Meren soldier collapsed at my feet, his body twitching once before going still. Blood pooled quickly beneath him, dark and steaming in the morning cold.

I exhaled and wiped crimson splatter off my cheek with the back of my hand.

“Check the fortress again,” I ordered, voice sharp enough to cut stone. “Every corridor. Every crevice. If any Meren soldier is still breathing…”

My eyes swept over the carnage—the corpses, the broken weapons, the dirt turned into red mud.

“…kill them without mercy.”

Haldor and General Arwin bowed instantly. “As you command, Your Highness.”

They disappeared into the fog, barking orders to the squads.

I turned slowly, surveying what remained.

Dozens of bodies surrounded me—strewn like discarded dolls, limbs bent at impossible angles. Blood had painted the walls in uneven arcs. The ground beneath my feet felt soft from the layers of flesh and soaked earth.

It looked like a graveyard where even the earth refused to accept what lay on it.

I sheathed my sword with a click that echoed through the ruined courtyard.

“How many of our soldiers died?” I asked.

Osric stepped closer, scanning the field beside me. The front of his shirt was painted red, the blade in his hand still dripping.

“We need time to search,” he said. “The fallen were scattered. Some may still be under rubble.”

I nodded once. Coldly. “Find them.”

He blinked. “Lavi—”

“I want every name,” I interrupted, tone flat, emotionless. “Every soldier who died protecting this fortress… I want their names on my desk before sundown.”

Osric swallowed—but he nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

My eyes hardened.

“And make sure the bodies are brought to one place. They will not rot beside our walls like trash.”

I stepped past him, my boots crushing a fallen assassin’s hand—bone snapping under my heel.

“These men bled for Eloria,” I continued. “I will not have their deaths drowned beneath the corpses of cowards.”

The wind howled softly, almost respectfully.

Osric hesitated again, watching me—the woman drenched in blood, cold and terrifying in the newborn sun.

“Lavi,” he whispered, “you… you’re still bleeding.”

I glanced at my scratched arm.

“Oh. This?” I shrugged lightly. “It’s nothing.”

Because compared to the bodies stacked around me, compared to the blood soaking my sleeves, compared to the night we just survived—It truly was.

Osric didn’t agree.

He stepped forward and gently—almost angrily—gripped my uninjured arm, pulling me just a fraction closer. “It is not nothing,” he said in a low voice. “You should’ve been wearing armor.”

I raised a brow. “I didn’t have time to dress up for a midnight massacre.”

“I’m calling Rey,” he insisted.

I sighed. “You won’t listen, will you?”

“Isn’t that why we keep arguing?” he shot back, frustrated but quiet, as if even his irritation was protective.

A laugh—short, sharp—escaped me. “At least you finally realized it.”

Osric opened his mouth, probably to argue again—but a heavy weight pressed against my side.

Marshi.

His golden fur was darkened with blood, some of it his, most of it not. Solena perched on his back, feathers ruffled, eyes sharp and bright as polished metal.

The divine beast nudged his massive head under my palm, demanding acknowledgment. I exhaled softly and rested my bloody hand on his mane.

“You did well,” I murmured, voice dipping into something warm but fierce. “Both of you.”

Marshi purred—a deep, rumbling vibration that shook the stones beneath us. Solena clicked her beak proudly, as if she had orchestrated the entire slaughter.

They fell into step behind me, flanking me like sacred guardians.

I walked forward through the carnage—Osric at my right, Marshi at my left, and Solena perched high like a crown.

The sun rose behind us, bleeding across the battlefield.

***

[Later—Black Wall Fortress—Meeting Chamber]

The war table was still stained with dried blood from last night. No one had bothered to clean it. Maybe none of us wanted to pretend this fortress was anything but what it was—

A battlefield wearing stone.

Haldor stood over the spread-out map, one hand braced against the wooden surface, the other tracing a precise line across the parchment.

“…If we move from this route,” he said, tapping the narrow valley cutting through the Frostplain cliffs, “we can reach the Eastern Region within three days. It is Meren’s largest province—its farms, its water routes, and its metal supply all run from here.”

I crossed my arms. “Their spine.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Haldor nodded. “And if the Eastern Region falls, the rest of Meren will collapse like a rotten gate.”

Osric leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “But that passage isn’t empty. Meren will have layered defenses. Traps. Hidden posts.”

“They will,” Haldor agreed, tone calm. “But after last night’s failed assassination, their command will be scrambling. Their soldiers will be exhausted. Their spies were exposed.”

“They’ll also be furious,” General Arwin added. “And desperate fury is dangerous.”

I smirked. “Let them be furious. It only means they’ll make mistakes.”

Haldor glanced up at me, eyes steady. “Your Highness… it isn’t the fury that concerns me.”

“Oh?” I raised a brow.

“It’s the desperation,” he said. “Cornered soldiers fight harder. And the Eastern Region will not fall quietly.”

I stepped closer, placing my hand over the part of the map he had circled.

“That,” I said, “is exactly why we take it first.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to me.

“Once the rations arrive from Eloria,” I continued, “we move immediately. Until then, the soldiers rest. Heal. Sharpen their blades.”

General Arwin bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

I tapped the map again. “Any trouble with the supply route?”

Osric shook his head. “None. We cleared the southern path, and the scouts confirmed zero Meren patrols. Even if the rations fall short…” His gaze shifted to the Eastern Region. “Once we seize their granaries, supply will no longer be a concern.”

A slow smile curved my lips. “I do love when you speak like a commander, Grand Duke.”

He bowed slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Haldor watched quietly, arms crossed—expression unreadable.

“Good,” I said, stepping back from the table. “Then we wait for the shipments to arrive. After that… we tear through their Eastern Region like fire through dry leaves.”

Arwin saluted. “Shall I inform the battalion captains?”

“Yes.”

He turned to go, and Sir Haldor followed—but paused when I spoke again.

“And all of you,” I added firmly, “rest. Heal. Tend to your men. I want no soldier walking into the Eastern front exhausted.”

Osric nodded. “We’ll handle it.”

Haldor bowed his head. “Understood.”

One by one, they left the chamber—Arwin with his scrolls, Haldor with that disciplined silence of his. Only Osric remained.

I rolled my shoulders back, stretching my arms to ease the heaviness lingering after battle and bloodshed. The war table creaked quietly as I leaned against it.

And then I caught it—Osric’s gaze, sharp and simmering, not at me…but at the doorway where Haldor had just exited.

My eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter?”

He blinked, then looked at me as if I had pulled him back from somewhere far darker. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I said, stepping closer. “Why were you glaring at Sir Haldor like you wanted to bury him alive under the floorboards?”

Osric held my gaze for a long second.

Two.

Then his jaw clenched.

“I hate that guy.”

I stared. “…What?”

“I hate him,” he repeated, voice low, almost shaking with a frustration I hadn’t seen since the coronation. “Every time I see him, I get so pissed I—” His fingers curled into fists. “—I feel like I want to kill him.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Osric—that’s—”

“I don’t know why,” he cut in, voice rougher. “It’s like something in me snaps when he stands too close to you. When you talk to him. When he breathes in the same room.”

My heartbeat stilled.

He wasn’t exaggerating.

He meant every word. And I should have scoffed. Laughed it off. Dismissed him like I usually do when he gets possessive or dramatic.

But instead… Instead, heat crawled up my spine. A slow, sharp anger I didn’t expect.

Why?

Because of his words?

It felt like someone had insulted me openly—my authority, my choices—and I hated that feeling. Hated it with a quiet, dangerous burn.

A silence settled between us. Heavy. Loaded.

I turned away before I said something sharp enough to wound. But Osric’s voice reached me from behind—low, strained, and far too honest for my comfort:

“I don’t trust him near you, Lavi.”

I froze.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the war table, but I sighed and said, “You should take some rest Osric.”